


WAKE ME THE FUCK UP

by TrickyNicky (UrPalSoup)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandonment, Blood, Death, Fear, Fear of Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, Macabre, Nightmares, Panic, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Esteem Issues, Trauma, Trippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrPalSoup/pseuds/TrickyNicky
Summary: And we all still dieYeah we all still dieWhat will you leave behind?Oh we all still die
Kudos: 1





	WAKE ME THE FUCK UP

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old rendition of a character, before I decided to reboot him. Even though I don't really like his old character anymore, I do like how this came out.

Coming and going, staying and leaving, running away and being left behind. So many words, so many ways, so many things. He thinks about those things a lot, they fill up his head, drag him into a dark abyss, a tangle that he can't get out of, thorns digging into his skin and tearing him open, splitting him at the seams. He doesn't get to have anyone. He knows this, believes it, sobs and wails and screams over it. For a while, at least. Eventually, everything will fall still once again, and he will be on his lonesome, silence acting as his only companion, though it hardly could be considered such a thing.

He's had plenty of people that have ignored him, left him, erased and hurt him. There's a sort of expectation that comes with that agony, the kind that makes him seem as though he likes it, being hurt, but he hates it. Yet he loves it. But he still hates it. He despises it, doesn't want it, doesn't need it in his life, hasn't he had enough already? Given the chance, however, to be hurt, he will still take it, not because he truly wants to, but because it is a part of his life, something he has been forced to embrace. That will never leave him until the day he either dies, or learns to unlearn.

He smells it, first, the tangy iron that he knows so well, too well. He's known it since that first day in containment, since the day the first person he ever loved was killed, since he killed a traitorous monster, since he watched a man he thought he could've loved, once, be shot, since he lost himself and became the monster he felt he was. He sees it, next, that piercing red, pooling out from beneath him, surrounding him in rippling waves of murky crimson, droplets falling just to hit the surface, becoming part of something greater than a single drop.

He's caked in it, dried layers of it that stain his skin hidden beneath the fresher coats, a disgusting paint that he isn't certain whether it's his or someone else's. His answer greets him in the form of a splash reverberating out, the waves gently rolling towards him as a body lands in the water. He stares at it, watching it float, limp and lifeless. The face is distorted, impossible to make out, every other feature hardly unique in any sense. He ponders, for a moment, where it came from. It caused a splash, so it must've fallen. But from where?

Half of him is screaming to look up, just spare the slightest of glances. The other half is crying out warnings, telling him that if he does, he might lose himself, might never look back down, might try to look so far up his neck snaps from the effort. He shudders at the train of thought, imagining his own fresh corpse joining the other that's currently floating not too far from where he's knelt. He isn't certain what to do, so he opts for looking down, because that seems safe enough.

He's greeted by the sight of hundreds of other bodies, meters deep--he's certain of this because, to his shock, the crimson sea that he's situated in rather comfortably is astoundingly transparent. They all gaze up at him with their soulless eyes, a rainbow of color, though they still manage to speak volumes, as though they're trying to communicate with him. He doesn't want to know the life stories of all these strangers, isn't certain why they want to tell him, so he looks back at the corpse that had fallen. It's started to sink beneath the surface, which causes him to wonder how many more bodies are there that he can't see because they're so deep in this ocean.

When something hits the top of his head, his brows furrow, as it derails his morbid train of thought. He still does not look up, even as more things hit him, and he realizes with a glance to his left that it's drops of blood, cascading down from the heavens. All of him is begging for him to just please look up. Still, something lurking within him tells him that it's not a wise choice. Why should he look up when he could sit here, contemplating a while more? Isn't it good to think? But then he remembers that once he starts thinking, he starts remembering things he doesn't want to remember, because remembering those things makes him want to screech.

The fresh coat of crimson runs down his body in rivulets, each droplet competing a race to the pool below, seeing who will make the ocean of death that much deeper. He wonders why he's so calm. Shouldn't he be panicking? Shouldn't he be hollering, crying out for help, for someone to come and save him from the horrors? Until he realizes that he doesn't care. He's been surrounded by this death, this agony all his life. It's normal to him. It's another thing he has come to expect, another thing he has been forced to embrace.

He looks up, and he's greeted by millions of faces and eyes and mouths, all staring and smiling at him, open-mouthed with the lifeblood of thousands pouring from their mouths. More bodies begin to drop all around him, he hears each splash, feels each time the waves come rushing at him when the blood waters ripple spastically from the impacts, but he does not look at them. His gaze flits from one face to the next, leering down, grinning wickedly and merrily, as though they love watching this death, being a piece of the process of it.

The issue is that he's here, he realizes belatedly. He's alive, and this is the sea of the dead, so why is he here? Why is he here? Why is he here? Why is he? Why is he? Why is he? Why is? Why is? Why is? Why? Why? Why? Blood, rushing at him, drowning him, filling up everything that is, that was, that ever will be, erasing all of his senses, ripping away who and what he is, replacing it with red and red and red and nothing else, just red and the sensation of falling and floating and failing and flailing and dying.

He wakes up in the cold, still so alone, hearing the wind roaring outside, rattling the makeshift cabin. He looks towards his window, out, at the howling blizzard, wondering. He doesn't go back to sleep.


End file.
